


Only So An Hour

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Ficlet, M/M, Other, underage sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-08
Updated: 2009-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam will never be strong if he keeps fighting who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only So An Hour

**Author's Note:**

> 421 coda. Not sure what this is. I was mid-Big Bang and writing my guts out and it just happened...! I just love wee!Sam, okay?

"The things I've wanted -- the things we... we wanted..." Sam's choking on the words, on his own fever, temples throbbing from how much he hates himself. "Were never normal. No matter how hard we tried..."

The kid he was just looks at him keenly with inhuman eyes. Everything he is, lost in there somewhere. Always lost.

"That's right. You remember what it's like."

Sam bites the inside of his lip and blinks rapidly at the lines of the devil's trap on the floor, vision blurring. He tries not to fall over face-first onto the floor; tries to keep himself upright. Tries not to cry. Tries not to look at himself.

"'Course I do," he spits out. "But it's different now. I'm -- I could be --"

"Strong?"

It's short, doubtful, hopeful, insulting.

"You'll never be strong if you keep fighting yourself. We'll never get away. You said it yourself."

Sneakers Sam remembers tying sullenly every morning before trudging out to the car step closer, and Sam lifts his chin high to glare at himself, meeting those molten-gold eyes straight-on.

"I'm stronger than you," he grunts ridiculously. God, he's hallucinating, but it's so vivid, every little scuff mark on his sneakers, the too-baggy jeans handed down from Dean, and he can't help but snap back viciously at the kid who's suddenly next to him like he's really, really there.

For that, he's shoved down, like two firm hands clamp onto his shoulders, so close to his neck. Too close. His pulse pounds against the grip; his tendons strain; _I'm fucking killing myself_ , Sam thinks, _killing myself, gonna die..._

"You're me. I'm you. Don't fight who you are. It's just gonna kill you faster," he advises himself, sounding too logical. Stupid. Sam realizes his arms are fighting to push against the force holding him down. He can barely see straight, but he can see the smile with too-big teeth edging along a pink lower lip.

"Dammit," Sam groans, his exhausted, shaking arms failing him. A fluctuation of painful heat explodes in his belly and coursing along all his limbs, burning, half agony and half inexplicable pleasure -- like relief. Like too-tight veins loosening and letting the blood course through him too fast, too heavy. Like everything in him needs to swell, including his cock in his jeans.

"Feels good, huh? It's okay. You can let go." The amused, soft voice drops even lower, whispering comfortingly in his ears, and the grip on his shoulders goes tight around his neck, making the room grey out in a single moment.

"No," Sam gurgles, tears running down his face.

"We wanna be strong," he says insistently, every pleading argument Sam ever had with Dean ringing in his ears.

But Sam has never felt weaker. Everything's fading except for the sharp beat of blood in his veins. His arms are gonna explode back open, the scars along them still dangerously pink and tender. His knees are somehow shaking even though they're locked down tight. His cock is trembling in his jeans, pulsing hard, and Sam hates him. Himself. He remembers being fourteen and hard like this all the time, crammed into beds with Dean and shaking with intensity and fear and wiggling against the mattresses just so, the smell of his brother suffocating him as he grew feverish. Even then he felt abnormal. Alone. Neediness surges through him, on its tail a warm pulse of relief.

The voice chants at him like a chorus of pleas. "We can do it. We're gonna do it. After everything... everything we've been through, we deserve this!"

"I can't --"

"Yes, you can. I can. I can make you."

"I'm not," Sam wheezes. He can't breathe. He can't move. The world is slipping away -- he's gonna pass out -- he's gonna die --

"It's inside you," Sam tells himself. "And it wants out. Let it out!"

And Sam doesn't know how it happens, but it rips through him, pushed down, built up. Terror. Ecstasy. Power. It's strong. It hurts like it's ripping every cell in his body apart and feels better than every other orgasm he's ever had combined; somewhere, his scream is strangled, and his spine's left the mattress. His knees yank and buckle. Hot spurts of come pump against his belly over and over, barreling out of him, never-ending and soaking through his boxers, the front of his jeans, sloppy and warm and comforting. Sam doesn't even know why he's coming, except that he is, twisting on it like he's on a spit and creaming his jeans like he's fourteen again and all the neural pathways in his brain are blowing open, lit up.

Then, just as abruptly as he rises, Sam falls again. The mattress catches him and clatters in its metal frame. His jeans slide across his skin, slimy, sopping.

"See? We don't need her blood," the little voice says. "This power... it's already in our blood."

Sam's lungs try to push out words. "Wh... did you..."

His arm flails off the mattress, then, loose and heavy, suddenly free. His skin's slick with sweat. He feels like he's dripping everywhere, even inside, everything seeping through his veins while they're momentarily not strangled with bloodlust.

"Easy. You just won't even try anymore."

Now, across the room, he's angry from arms' length.

"You're using Ruby up. Why are you doing that to her? Sucking her blood? I'm too hungry. You'll never get enough from her. It never lasts. It's not fair. You could stop... if you really wanted to. If you're smart, you'll listen to Dean. You'll stop. You can do it yourself."

"Don't. Don't talk to me about him," Sam pants, and turns a hard glare at the benign little kid who practically blends into the shadows there in the panic room, toeing at the circle of light that halos the devil's trap and shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn't just make Sam orgasm half to death.

The boy smiles at him, eyelashes dropping sweetly as his gaze flickers down Sam's hips. "I don't have to."

For some reason, it smarts to hear that, like he didn't know it himself, in his gut that's still fluttering pathetically, tremoring hopefully for more. The rush of power and pleasure's already starting to fade. Feeling like he'll stumble and fall like his legs are broken, Sam pushes himself up abruptly and staggers toward himself, but he just gets a glimmer of a sad smile before his hallucination disappears in a flash.

"I love how it feels," Sam whispers behind him.

Sam jerks around to see himself sitting on the bed in a slump.

"Fighting bullies... but better," the murmur continues. "Wanna be unbeatable. Unstoppable. Don't wanna be afraid. Don't wanna depend on anyone. Not him. Not her."

Sam's shoulders heave. Up his spine shoots a crystal-hard nerve of pain. "'S not the way it works."

He wants to choke himself, shut this voice in his head up, doesn't want to see how afraid he really was, really is. He wants to see black smoke pouring out of his own mouth and leaving him forever. Like instinct, his hand shoots up, his palm bares itself. His entire hand shakes and shudders in front of him, but he feels it working, feels the sudden, cooperative surge of juice in him. He has the kid's tiny body pinned to the bed in an instant, and his vision goes from swimming and dizzy to abruptly clear. Clear as day. He could count the individual threads of the bed sheet, the teeth on the zipper of that old hoodie.

He closes his hand, watches his own eyes close like a doll's.

"C'mon," Sam wheezes at him. "Just try. Just once..."

"Shut up," he orders himself forcefully, clenching his fist tightly for a second, then flattening it wide, thinking, _Spread. Open up. Stay out._

Like a puppet on a string, the small body pulls taut on the mattress, giving him a couple of desperate extra inches, and it's exactly like it is in Sam's head, the way he can bend himself to his own will. Hold what he was. Keep it tight in place. He can do this. It's easy as thinking, even though his head is pounding.

"I want you to do it," he's begged through clenched teeth, and Sam shudders as a post-orgasmic aftershock rumbles through his body. He remembers clenching hard on himself, trying not to breathe, trying to keep quiet, teeth gnashed against his pillow, internally pleading, _Dean, Dean, don't wake up. Don't see me like this..._ "I know you can do it... make me do it, make me -- come. Please."

Small hips wriggle on the bed before Sam stills them forcefully, pinning them with all his might and feeling another heady burst of control, clarity and power. His body's totally caught, chest working hard for breaths, and golden slivers pin themselves onto him, wanting and lonely. The slouching blue jeans are no less crowded with pent-up need.

"You don't deserve this," Sam grinds out.

"You're doing it anyway," Sam gasps back voicelessly. "Please!"

He's fourteen, prone on a mattress, jaw clenched, head turned away from Dean. Dean'll think he's a freak. Call him a dork. Dean would never let him live it down. Sam stuffs it all down. Bites it back, swallows it, comes in his sleep anyway. Always was a little freak. Always will be. No matter how good he pretends or how hard he tries to be normal, he knows he's not.

He hears himself begging.

"You can do it. Please. Let me come. Let us come."

Sam closes his eyes, pushes with the heel of his palm, and listens to himself sob and cry. Rotates his wrist until that tiny voice is crying out for his big brother. _Dean! Dean, please! Oh my God!_

This one comes up slow, a warm curl, like a massive but gentle tidal wave that breaks over him. It rushes over his skin, beading up sweat, and Sam lets loose a ragged howl as he creams himself again, feeling it sluice thickly across his skin, smudge down his thigh. It feels, for a moment, like he's floating, then roiling slow and sinuous on that mattress. It drains slowly out of him. All of it. Life blood.

When he opens his eyes again, he's alone, back on the mattress, shaking in death throes. The sweat's dried tacky on his skin. His jeans are dry. He never even left the mattress. He never held anything in his hand.

"Dean," he tries, coughing it up. "Dean!"

_Help me. Ruby. Somebody help me._


End file.
